Sound Mind
by StoneWingedAngel
Summary: At the time I was too steeped in grief that surrounded me like an impenetrable shell to realise how strange it was for a valet to be called to the reading of a gentleman's will, even if the gentleman was his own, and he missed him so terribly sleep was impossible and the world seemed numbed and grey.
1. Part One

The body of Mr Wooster was found by a passer-by late in August, when the heat had reached such an intensity that even I found myself wishing to be rid of my duties and sit with a glass of something cool and a book.

Mr Wooster is a man of extraordinarily good heart. He had instructed me quite firmly that all jobs could wait until the weather had passed, and I had little more to do than make drinks and light meals. In less extreme circumstances I might have ignored his instructions, but with the mercury in the thermometer edging to dangerous heights, I accepted, and began a large backlog of reading.

The works of Spinoza kept me diverted for several hours after Mr Wooster had announced that he was going to the Drones to 'melt over the bar' with Mr Glossop. Preoccupied with my books, it wasn't until it began to grow dark that I felt the first stirrings of unease. It was not unusual for Mr Wooster to keep late hours, but he had set off a little before lunch time, and was not in the habit of staying out without returning to change his clothes before dinner.

I did not allow the worry to settle. Circumstances of a strange had a tendency to pursue Mr Wooster like bloodhounds, and I presumed that one such had arisen. Mr Wooster would be back in good time, no doubt with an amusing anecdote, or a puzzle for me to put my mind to. I would be all too happy to listen; the flat seemed quiet when he was absent.

My book, which had been extremely engaging before I noticed the time, now failed to keep my eyes on the page for more than thirty seconds at a time; I was constantly looking to the doorway in the hope Mr Wooster would spring through it. When the clock hands reached midnight I telephoned the Drones with the intention of enquiring whether he would be back this evening, but was informed by the pleasant man at the end of the line that Mr Wooster had not been seen that day, and would I like to leave a message?

I requested to be informed should Mr Wooster make an appearance, and replaced the receiver with a heavy heart. None of his friends, when I telephoned them, had seen him, not even Mr Glossop, who told me, rather sharply, that he had waited for Mr Wooster for most of the afternoon. Eventually, the clamouring of my nerves became almost unbearable, and I took to the streets with a sigh and the conclusion that if I ended up looking foolish, Mr Wooster would do no more than tease me. I would rather endure such teasing than know I had been not been there if he needed me.

I visited all his usual haunts, but could find no trace. No-one had heard from him, although the young girl who sold flowers on the corner said she had seen him heading in the direction of the Drones just before midday. I returned to the empty flat, unsurprised to find it so, although I had been indulging in the irrational hope of Mr Wooster returning during my absence.

He did not come home that night, nor the next morning.

By ten the next day I had telephoned his friends and relatives a second time. By noon I had informed the police of my concerns, but it was already too late; a body matching the size and shape of Mr Wooster was discovered the next day, face down in the river Thames. The violence inflicted on the body made it practically unrecognisable, but the ruined pocket book and waterlogged watch inside the grey jacket that was missing from Mr Wooster's wardrobe were unmistakably his.

* * *

The police suspected a mugging had escalated to murder; there had been several instances of robbery around the Drones club in the months leading up to August, although never a death. The thought of how things might have been different if I had not been so distracted by my reading, if I had kept Mr Wooster behind a few moments on some trivial issue, came to me regularly over the next days. The guilt, although irrational – I could have had no foresight of the tragedy – was crushing.

The flat was unendurable. Mr Wooster had taken long leaves of absence in the past, but always under the assurance he would return. The thought that he was not was too much. Within a week, I took a hotel room not far from Berkeley Mansions.

At the time I was too steeped in grief that surrounded me like an impenetrable shell to realise how strange it was for a valet to be called to the reading of a gentleman's will, even if the gentleman was his own, and he missed him so terribly sleep was impossible and the world seemed numbed and grey.

I was unsurprised to see both Mrs Travers and Mrs Gregson at the lawyer's office, but the addition of Miss Glossop, Mr Pinker, Miss Basset and Mr Fink-Nottle caused me almost to raise an eyebrow. No doubt Mr Wooster had left them some small token or items borrowed and not yet returned, and I could not stop myself wondering what my own would be. An alpine hat, perhaps; a last, sentimental joke. I fought hard to compose my features – I was in danger of shedding tears, which is certainly not what a gentleman's personal gentleman is trained to do, even when the gentlemen in question has been murdered.

Mr Speight was a well-meaning if slightly harassed young solicitor, one I had approved of when Mr Wooster had chosen him, despite his habit of chewing his fingernails when under strain.

"Everyone here?" Mr Speight looked around the room. "With your permission, I would like to read Mr Wooster's will aloud. It will save a considerable amount of time."

The room was stifling. Mrs Travers and Mrs Gregson nodded assent. Mr Speight brought out the piece of paper covered in Mr Wooster's handwriting, and held it close to his face and began to read.

"_I suppose this is it then, what? I don't suppose this is how one writes ones will, but I never was the brightest man in the room, and I did so want to write it myself. Humour me for being a sap; it was always a fault even you, Jeeves, couldn't train out of me_."

My face reddened as eyes flicked in my direction. For all Mr Wooster's small faults, I had never considered sentiment one of them.

"_First, Aunt Dahlia, aunt of my bosom. I thought I'd better thank you officially for jerking that rubber comforter out of the young Wooster maw. Very decent of you_."

Mrs Travers brought her handkerchief up to her eyes and blinked furiously. "Oh Bertie, you ass," she murmured.

Mr Speight pushed on relentlessly. "_I've got a couple of silver what-nots – the cufflinks with the chipped corners and my watch – that I'd like Uncle Tom to have. I don't suppose they're the kind of thing he usually drools over, but a little something's better than nothing. Jeeves will show you where I keep everything_."

I gave Mr Speight and Mrs Travers a small nod. Although the watch had been too long submerged in river water to be salvaged, it was still a fine silver article, and I was sure Mr Travers would be pleased by it.

"_As for you, Aunt D., I've set aside some money that should help keep Milady's Boudoir from sinking into the depths. I have a request, too – I should like it if you could get Anatole to cook up something special and invite whoever you think will enjoy it over to Totleigh. And no gloomy or income tax related discussion; everyone is to have a dashed good time_."

Mrs Travers was decidedly wet-eyed, Miss Basset already in floods, and even Mr Pinker seemed pink-faced and watery. Only Mrs Gregson remained entirely composed.

"_Honoria, I know you go in for that tennis guff, and I've got a couple of rackets. They're not ladies' sizes, but you're as strong as old Wooster here, and I think you can make good use of them. And Madeline, my mother's flower press at the back of the wardrobe; you like that sort of thing, so you might as well take it_."

Miss Basset let out a cry that could have been compared to that of a small whale, and threw her arms around Mr Fink-Nottle's neck. He patted her awkwardly on the shoulder.

"There, there, it's not that bad is it? You love flowers…"

"I _know_," she gurgled. "I j-just didn't know _he _cared!"

Mr Speight wiped his glasses, which were steaming in the heat. My legs, sore from standing at the back of the room for so long – there had been no chairs available when I arrived – were beginning to ache with fresh vigour, and my nose and eyes stinging uncontrollably. I was thankful that, situated behind the rest of the party, no-one could see the emotion leaking unintentionally onto my features.

"_To Gussie and Stinker, I've left money for each of you with Mr Speight; I thought it might go some way to the marriage licences and suits or whatever rot you need – newts or rugger shoes, no doubt_.

"_That brings me to Aunt Agatha. Assuming you haven't managed to marry me off to some bally female, you can have back the engagement ring you gave me five years ago in the hope I would throw it at the first beazle that crossed my path_."

Mrs Gregson's features twisted into something decidedly sour-looking. "Is that it?" she said sharply, cutting across Mr Speight with a bark like a foghorn and leaving the poor man with his mouth half open. The room went quiet.

"Mr Wooster has only one more benefactor…"

"Hush Agatha," Mrs Travers murmured, although her lowered tone was quite useless; the silence meant a pin drop could have been heard.

"But as the eldest surviving relative, it only makes _sense _that I should-"

"Yes, well Bertie never was one for sense, was he?" I had the distinct impression that, had they been alone, Mrs Travers would have administered a swift kick to the ankle of her sister. "As the both of us were so often telling him."

Mr Speight cleared his throat. "Well. Like I said, almost over with now. The final benefactor is Mr Jeeves. He is to have everything."

Mrs Gregson made a noise like a vacuum cleaner which everyone, even Mr Speight, managed to ignore.

"That includes the flat and all its contents, his clothes, the car and…" There was an ominous pause. If looks could have fatal effect, Mrs Gregson's would have reduced me to a pile of ash. "And all that is left of Mr Wooster's funds."

There are very few instances in my life I have been genuinely baffled. When Mr Speight made his announcement, I would not be exaggerating if I said it was the first time I had felt so confused in a decade.

"I am sorry, Sir," I said. "But there must be some mistake." It was too much. The piano, even the car, I might have been able to accept – Mr Wooster had always been extraordinarily generous – but the total of the flat and its contents would in themselves have been a ridiculous sum.

"Yes," Mrs Gregson chipped in. "There must be a mistake."

Mr Speight didn't look away from the papers. "No mistake. I have it all here: _Finally, the car, the London flat and the money are to go you, Jeeves. I can't think of anyone more deserving. Please believe me when I say that it is nothing when I think of many times you've lowered the helping h. and dragged the young master clear of disaster. Consider it one last thank you_."

The paper rustled as Mr Speight extended his arm and offered it to Mrs Gregson. "You can read it yourself."

Mrs Gregson snatched the will and pulled it close to her face, examining the writing minutely as the eyes of every person in the room darted back and forth between the two of us. It was exceedingly uncomfortable. I would have given everything I had just received in order to leave the room and tend to the numb shell that was rapidly cracking under such intense scrutiny. I would have given it four or five times over to have Mr Wooster materialise, alive and well, amongst us.

"This is madness." Mrs Gregson threw the will back onto the desk. Her eyes were glinting in a way that usually had me readying myself to deal with whatever horrendous circumstances she had planned for my unfortunate employer. "Absolute and blatant madness."

"Agatha…"

"Do shut up, Dahlia." Mrs Gregson rose to her feet. "I intend to contest the will, on the grounds of unstable mind."

Miss Basset gave a small squeak of dismay, and the others exclamations of disapproval, but it was Mrs Travers who stood, and, getting nose to nose with Mrs Gregson, began to shout.

"You will do no such thing!"

"Why not? Everyone thought the boy was potty! Sir Roderick would back me up in a heartbeat."

At this the young Miss Glossop also rose from her chair, knocking it sharply into Mr Fink-Nottle's legs. "Daddy will not! I absolutely refuse to let it happen!"

Within seconds the room had dissolved into a scene reminiscent of a knight's melee. I have a strong dislike of conflict, and was uncomfortably aware that, whatever Mr Wooster had envisaged when he had written his will, it was certainly not this.

I gave a small cough and, when this failed to produce the desired silence, brought myself to speak. "Excuse me."

The noise faded. I resisted the urge to swipe a hand across my eyes, taking refuge in propriety and hoping that it would be enough to hold the pieces of my resolve together.

"I am perfectly willing to bequeath my inheritance to Mr Wooster's family if that is what they deem fit." My lip twitched. "I would not wish Mr Wooster to be declared a lunatic."

"Don't be an ass, Jeeves," Mrs Travers replied sharply. "He left it for you, and with you it will stay. God knows you did more for the young blister than any of us ever did."

I would have produced some protest, but got no opportunity, as Miss Glossop had already added her rather substantial voice to the debate.

"Bertie wasn't mad! A bit…eccentric, perhaps, but he was a lamb, really."

"And you helped us out of enough scrapes." Mr Fink-Nottle's voice was rather dwarfed in comparison to Miss Glossop's, but discernible all the same. "Bertie would have known you'd be able to do _something_ with his money."

Mrs Gregson viewed Mr Speight, Mrs Travers, and finally myself with thinly veiled contempt.

"You won't help me contest the will?"

Mrs Travers folded her arms. "I'll fight you every blasted step of the way!"

The silence stretched until the atmosphere was suffocating. Mrs Gregson, after a few seconds of careful consideration, seemed to come to the conclusion that not one of the party assembled was going to back down, and swept from the room with an incoherent stream of muttering.

Miss Glossop blew out a breath, nostrils flaring. "That's her sorted. Congratulations, Jeeves."

Congratulations were not what I felt was in order – condolences, although they would do nothing to bring back Mr Wooster, would have been more appropriate – but I knew she meant well, and tipped my head accordingly.

"I've got to be off. I'll drop round some time for the rackets."

She was swiftly followed by Miss Basset, Mr Fink-Nottle and Mr Pinker, all of whom made stumbling excuses and left as quickly as possible, though I took some comfort in the fact they had defended Mr Wooster so stoutly. I had never had true cause to doubt their loyalty, but they had sometimes had used Mr Wooster's good heart in ways I disapproved of.

Soon, only Mrs. Travers remained in the room, and I was beginning to wonder whether or not I should take my leave before her, when she addressed me directly.

"You will come to the dinner?"

Although touched she had thought of me, I shook my head. "Thank you, Madam, but it would not be proper."

"Hang 'proper'! Hang it and jump on it, Jeeves! Nothing about this is _proper_." Mrs Travers clenched her fists tightly, and took a deep breath. When she next spoke her voice was more controlled, but unnaturally strained. "First my poor sister, and now her sweet boy, and my other sister acting like a…a…"

I did not supply one of the many words she could have chosen, although a part of me dearly desired to.

"If you believe Mr Wooster would have wished it-"

"He would."

"Then I shall come."

Mr Speight's papers rustled loudly, as if he were trying to drown out our conversation, and Mrs Travers heaved a sigh. "Good. I shall send a telegram to the flat giving you the date and time."

She started to the door and, more out of habit than with conscious decision, I stepped towards it and held it open for her. "I am sorry for your loss," I murmured as she passed through the frame.

When she turned in the corridor to face me, her face seemed shadowed. "Don't be sorry for me, Jeeves. You'll miss him most of all, and don't try and convince me otherwise."

Of all those present at the reading, I realised Mrs Travers was the only one who understood that I was now not only a rich man, but an extremely unhappy one.

* * *

**Thanks for reading! This is my first attempt at Jeeves characters, so feedback is very welcome!**

**To be continued. **


	2. Part Two

The small dinner held in Mr Wooster's honour, well-intentioned though it was, did nothing to raise my spirits. Mrs Travers and the rest of the guests were kind and carefully jovial, but the hotel room I had to return to felt cold and empty. Over the next weeks I spent little of my time indoors, preferring to take long walks under the pretence of needing some imagined necessity from the open markets.

As the summer transformed into a depressingly wet and chilly autumn I found the urge to return to work overwhelming, despite the fact Mr Wooster's assets had left me with more than enough to live off. To keep busy was an imperative, and I felt I would not be betraying Mr Wooster by seeking employment. My life had been one defined by work, and without it I felt lost.

I set out for the Agency in September, head bowed against the onslaught of rain, which did nothing to dampen my determination. Mr Miller was the man who assigned valets, and I knew him well; he had more than once found me a position, including Mr Wooster's.

"Terrible business," was the first thing he said upon my arrival. "A young man like that."

I murmured assent in the hope he would move on from the subject, but to no avail.

"It must have been difficult for you to adjust. How long was it you were with him? Five years?"

"Six."

"That long?"

It had never seemed like an extensive amount of time to me. I had been labouring under the delusion that it would never end.

"And before then…" Mr Miller flicked through his file, which was substantial; before Mr Wooster, there had been very few employers with whom I found myself able to coexist. I stared at my lap as the pages ruffled, trying not to blink too frequently. The rain hammered on the windows.

"Mr Jeeves…are you perfectly sure you're ready to come back?"

I looked up hastily, taking a deep breath. "I do not wish to be idle."

Mr Miller inclined his head, jotted something down on a piece of paper, and handed me an address on a slip of paper. "Mr Harris. Elderly bachelor, mild-mannered, likes to play the piano. London-based; you won't have to go out of your way."

Mr Miller was giving me an easy position, one that had probably been reserved for the inexperienced valets. Part of me was inclined to take offense that he did not trust me, but I did not let it show; he was only doing what he thought was right.

I took the slip of paper and tucked it in my breast pocket.

* * *

Mr Harris was, indeed, an easy position. He had a moderate taste in cravats and jackets, quiet mannerisms and a tendency to fall asleep for most of the afternoon, leaving me to my own devices. I was to cook simple meals that would not offend a frail constitution, do light housework, and make regular cups of tea. As positions went, it was a perfectly acceptable, even desirable one.

It might have been enjoyable, if my intention in returning to work had been to sit agitatedly on comfortable chairs and attempt to read improving books which could no longer hold my attention. Any small noise – the opening of a window across the street, or the sound of Mr Harris's stick against the carpet – would jolt me out of even the most engaging material, and for a moment I would truly believe I was hearing Mr Wooster coming through the door.

It was never him, of course.

It took me less than a week to come to the conclusion my situation was intolerable, and less than a day to debate whether it would be unkind to leave my new master so soon, lest he feel it was due to some shortcoming of his own. In retrospect, I doubt the concern was necessary; Mr Harris, though kind, was unobservant in his old age, and I would be very much surprised if he noticed I had been replaced.

* * *

Mr Miller was nothing less than genuinely surprised at my return to his office, but after listening to my quiet explanations, he obligingly sent me to another master. The Watford-Smythe residence was an immensely large dwelling situated well out of London, exceedingly beautiful, and exhausting for the staff to maintain. It certainly provided the distraction I had been craving.

In the end the reason for my leaving was not the workload, nor my master's dress sense, nor any of the other trivial issues that had often caused me to leave someone's employ in the past, but the fact that my master was too well behaved. He did not have friends who tried to convince him to steal semi-precious items. He did not get engaged by mistake. My body was drained by the work, but my mind continued to stagnate. The lack of pleasant conversation or interesting puzzles made my continuation impossible.

It did not help that the flowers in the garden were the same white roses Mr Wooster used to wear in his buttonhole.

From that moment I moved so frequently from master to master that I could hardly remember their names. It was irrelevant; none of them was Mr Wooster, and I could not bear them because of it. Mr Miller soon had nothing left for me. I could have been in employed in a heartbeat had I gone to one of Mr Wooster's friends, but I was certain the constant reminder of his death would be too much.

I gave up looking for work and began to walk again – the October chills were a small price for some peace of mind, brief though it was. It was fortunate Mr Wooster had left me his money; my shoes were worn down at such a rate I was forced to buy new ones.

If I recall correctly, it was mid-November when, on one of my extensive rambles I decided to return to the flat, triggered by a sudden downpour that soaked me to the skin as I was passing and allowed me to convince myself that going in was simply a matter of convenience.

The door was difficult to open, and I had to force it with my shoulder as it jammed on the letters that had been posted. I could not bring myself to pick them up.

Dust lay like a duvet over every surface, springing up whenever my hand brushed a sideboard or table. The kitchen was in the poorest of conditions – the teapot still had leaves clustered dryly in the bottom, any trace of moisture having dried up long ago. The food in the cupboards was stale or mouldering. Everything smelled spoiled.

Spoiled was the most apt word, I thought, retreating to the lounge with my dusty gloves clasped in my hands. Until that day in August, my life that was comfortable, entertaining and, more than anything, happy. I had always known my contentment had rested somewhat on Mr Wooster, but it was only after he was gone that I had come to realise how much that was the case.

Entering Mr Wooster's bedroom posed no problem for me – I had so often stepped through it with his morning cup of tea whilst he was alive that doing so when he was dead felt like routine, although I had no tea to offer the empty bed. The sheets were perfectly folded, the wardrobe doors closed. Only the chrysanthemums in the blue vase showed how much time had passed; they were so withered that even the stalks had crumbled.

Mr Wooster's ties were still hanging forlornly on their rack, arranged as I had left them in order of size and colour. All were accounted for, apart from the pale green one Mr Wooster had been wearing on the day he died. My fingers hovered over the dove grey with the pink lozenges, one both I and Mr Wooster had shared equal fondness for. It was mine, now. Everything was mine, and I wished with all my heart that it wasn't – that Mr Wooster would want to wear the tie for dinner that evening.

Perhaps it was because I had closed the bedroom door, or because I was not expecting anyone to enter the flat, but it was only when I heard footsteps on the lounge carpet that I realised I was not alone. My first emotion was shame; that anyone should see the miserable state of the place made my insides coil like hot wires. Nevertheless, I held my head high and pushed open the bedroom door. There was no reason I should not be here – this was my flat now, much as I hated owning it.

"I say Jeeves, you've gotten awfully thin."

I am not ashamed to say I lost my self-control to such an extent I looked both alarmed and gratified in the same instant – so rarely had I allowed even one emotion to cross my face that two seemed to stretch my skin to its limits. I was convinced, until Mr Wooster stepped forward from the doorway and knocked over a brass ornament, thus proving he was of living flesh, that I had either gone insane, or was experiencing the effects of the supernatural.

Mr Wooster brought his hands to his face, which was paler and more lined than I remembered. "Dash it! This isn't how I planned, and now I've gone and spoiled it all."

I did not follow what he was saying, but I could not find the voice to say so.

"I rehearsed it in the lift, but then I saw you standing there like one of those whatsit statues you find in rotten museums…"

"Sir?"

"The thingummies, where they don't show anything but the cove's head and shoulders and they stare at you like Aunt Agatha on a bad day."

"A bust, Sir?"

"That's it!" His face came alight with the satisfaction that always came to him when I took the words from the tip of his tongue and offered them to him. When I scanned his features I could see no sign of deceit. This was not an elaborate prank, and Mr Wooster did not intend to make fun of my grief – that was not in his nature. I remained silent, awaiting his explanation. Doing so was easier than trying to comprehend the situation by myself.

It was only in that moment I realised the clock on the mantelpiece no longer ticked. It had wound down in our absence.

"You're looking rather pale, Jeeves. You can sit down if you like."

"Thank you, Sir." If I sounded curt, it was not intentional – I was simply baffled beyond eloquence. I found a chair and sank, as quickly as I thought proper, into it. Mr Wooster chose the one opposite and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. The position was so characteristic of him that it was both heart-warming and painful.

"I mean to say, this is probably a bally shock for you."

Despite my distress, my mouth twitched. "You could say that, Sir."

* * *

Mr Wooster's tale ran thus: that, on his way to the Drones, he had been accosted by a gentleman with a pistol, who had forced him into a car and driven him to the countryside in order to take his jacket and all its contents far from the prying eyes of the midday crowds. He had, after the robbery, struck Mr Wooster a severe blow to the head. The details of how the same man ended up in the London Thames I can only guess, though I take the liberty of assuming his intended next victim had been rather more than he could handle.

Mr Wooster had found himself, a fortnight later, ensconced in the local hospital ward with no memory, not only of what had happened to him, but of his own identity. Without his pocket book or watch, the nurses had no chance of ascertaining who he was. His presumed death had received only light coverage in the papers, which had moved to more sensational stories by the time Mr Wooster awoke. He had, as a result, been forced to remain in the hospital for the duration of three months, until his memory returned sufficiently for him to recall his name and address.

"It's a bally odd thing," Mr Wooster murmured. He was still sitting in the chair opposite, although I had provided the both of us with a stiff brandy before he began his tale. The glass was resting loosely in his hands, which were bonier than I would have wished to see them; Mr Wooster had always been slender, but I had never seen him so sharp. "The nurses kept banging on about the memory coming back of its own accord, but I must say I didn't quite believe them. I had snatches; childhood stuff and what-not, Aunt Agatha for one, though I couldn't for the bally life of me remember her name. And then a beazle came to visit an aged r. of some shape or form, and she dropped off his hat. An awful lot like the one you wear."

"A bowler, Sir?"

"Exactly. It gave me a kick, I can tell you. And after that the memories kept pouring in; no stopping them. I could barely sleep for waking up with some new morsel or other. And as soon as I had my name, I found myself in the papers. When I read about it…" He let out a sigh uncharacteristic of his unfailingly cheerful nature. "Well, I charged round as quickly as I possible. I even wrote down the address, to make sure I didn't forget it on the way. Couldn't bear to keep you labouring under a…oh the whatsit. Miscellaneous. Misty. Mis-something."

"Misapprehension, Sir."

"Yes. That." He gave me a watery smile that I felt was more for his benefit than my own. "I am sorry, Jeeves."

"You need not apologise, Sir. It was not your fault."

"Aunt Dahlia always said I was a sickly specimen. Aren't gentlemen supposed to be able to fend off the fiends of the human race with their umbrellas or some such rot?"

"I highly doubt it, Sir."

"You haven't missed me so much, I suppose. Been busy? Reading? I left you enough to buy every Spinoza book under the sun, if you wanted to."

I looked around the glaringly neglected flat – even the chairs we were sitting on were layered in dust – and placed my brandy glass upon the nearest table. Even well after the event had passed, I could not find the appropriate words to describe the melancholy that had oppressed me since his disappearance.

"I have missed you terribly, Sir."

His face softened. "I've missed you too. Missed this – bally hospital food isn't a patch on your eggs and b."

I wanted to smile, but I did not let myself – there was still one question to ask. "Sir, may I enquire-"

"Enquire away, Jeeves."

"Why did you leave your assets to me, and not your family, or your friends?"

There was a pause. Mr Wooster's hands shifted in his lap, picking at threads as the silence stretched, until I thought he was not going to answer at all.

"Dash it – they all already have money. You don't. As far as friends go, I know it probably offends your feudal s., but you're one of them. Perhaps the best – never once have you asked me to steal a cow creamer. I wanted to make sure you were alright. Set up."

"I could have found employment, Sir. I enjoy my work." It was a lie – I enjoyed my work only when it was with him. "You need not have worried."  
His face fell. "Did it offend you, Jeeves?"

I shook my head. "Your will was extremely generous, Sir – I appreciate it immensely." I rested my hands on my knees and resisted the urge to grip them tightly. "But I would far rather have remained in your employ. These past six years have been worth more to me than any amount of money."

Mr Wooster's head came up, and this time his smile was perfectly genuine. I had missed that perhaps most of all, but I think I only realised it then.

"I say…that is to say…well, Jeeves. That makes it a bit easier, then."

"Sir?"

"Well, legally, I don't have a place to live and…I was rather hoping I could stay here until we can get this mess sorted. Only, I mean, you are the owner of the place now, and it's only polite to ask."

I raised an eyebrow a measured half-inch, and allowed myself the liberty of a smile. "I would like nothing better, Sir."

* * *

**That's all! I may come back to this story and do an epilogue and/or sequel sometime in the future, but it probably won't be for a while; I'm snowed under with uni work, and this was intended just to be a short thing to get me into the characters.**

**Thanks for reading, feedback welcome!**

**The End. **


End file.
